


The Haunting of Bilbo

by EinahSirro



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Bilbo comes back from his adventure mourning Thorin, dreaming of what could have been. But he's not as alone as he thinks he is.





	1. Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> It's just a drabble that was on my mind. Not related to any of my other works. I just keep coming back to Thorin and Bilbo, you know?

Gandalf had warned him, Bilbo brooded, that when he returned to the Shire, he would be a changed Hobbit. It was true, but Bilbo was fighting it. 

At the moment, he was fighting it in the comfort of his easy chair before a cozy fire in his fireplace. His smial was as tidy as it could be, given that he had arrived home that afternoon, tired and dusty, to find his belongings being carted away. Bilbo had spent several hours in heated debate with the auctioneer, the authorities, and several relatives before the majority of his belongings were reluctantly returned and placed, rather spitefully, not quite where they were supposed to be. 

But mostly, home looked like home. He’d have to spend tomorrow thoroughly going over it. Bilbo gave a firm nod of his head as he gazed into the fire. Yes, tomorrow he would put the smial to rights, and go to the market, and get fresh fruit. Biscuits and preserves were alright for tea, but for breakfast, well. Must have oranges.

For a moment, the Hobbit looked – if one were peering in a window – as if he were in a trance, staring into the fire, his pleasant face settling into tired, wistful lines. His wavy, golden brown curls were a bit limp, a bit long. They were rather in his eyes,… his sad, dark blue eyes, which reflected a bit of firelight. One could almost imagine that Bilbo was ruminating on the fate of someone he had thought highly of. Someone with long, flowing dark hair. Someone with burning blue eyes, and sharp features. It was almost as if Bilbo were hearing once more a baritone voice speaking from the past… not even that distant a past. Mere months ago.

Bilbo inhaled sharply and refocused his eyes on his tea tray, sitting on the hassock near his comfortable chair. He admitted it to himself; he was distracted. Not quite the same Hobbit as he was. Thorin, he acknowledged, haunted his thoughts. Thorin, who died in his arms. Thorin, whom he’d stayed to see laid to rest, his face cleaned, his hair smoothed down, the Arkenstone in his hands, his shield laid across him, between his two nephews. Stars, what a tragic funeral that was, Bilbo mused, shaking his head slowly. Such a vibrant, yet cursed family, the Durins. But their end perhaps satisified the fates, he told himself. They had avenged themselves on the orcs. They had chased the dragon from their home. They had secured Erebor for all posterity. 

They were legends now, Bilbo thought (with a bitter grimace), and for a dwarf, to be a legend was…. Well, it was everything, wasn’t it? Really, had Thorin been given a choice to be a tragic but triumphant legend, revered by the dwarfs for all eternity, or to be a nobody working in a forge and living to a ripe old age with nothing but, say, one devoted lover to admire him… 

Bilbo blinked rapidly and leaned forward to pour himself another cup of tea. As if that had ever been an option. It had taken the majority of the journey to even convince Thorin that Bilbo was more than a handicap, and he’d nearly lost the Dwarf’s regard at the end, by his desperate gambit with the Arkenstone… but Thorin did ask his forgiveness. Gasped out his regret, staring up at Bilbo with those large, deep blue eyes reflecting the sky… and then he died.

Bilbo drank his tea and then decided that this was nonsense. Tea, that is. This was an occasion for brandy. He heaved himself up from the chair and went to the cupboard, removing a nice tumbler, and pouring himself a goodly dollop from the fine bottle with the ribbon on its neck that rested on the worktop. He thanked the Gamgee family mentally for their quickly obtained homecoming gift. 

Returning to his chair, Bilbo sat down again, looked into the fire, and lifted his glass slightly in a silent toast. To Thorin. May he be seated on a golden throne in the Halls of Mandos, the Arkenstone above his head, the odes and ballads of the grateful dwarfs ringing in his ears for all eternity. Bilbo’s eyes filled as he mentally completed the thought, and he drank. Then he scolded himself for his sentimentality. Had he died and Thorin lived, would Thorin be weeping by his fireside at night over the Burglar who helped him reclaim his kingdom? No, Bilbo was certain he wouldn’t. Oh, Thorin would have honored his memory, but his attentions would have been entirely subsumed by the massive task of rebuilding Erebor, cleaning, repairing, welcoming the returning dwarfs from the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains. He’d not have mooned over a dead Hobbit.

Bilbo took another drink and as he lowered the tumbler, something fell from the mantle over the fire and landed on the rug near his feet. The Hobbit gave a snuffle and wiped his eyes self-consciously, and then leaned forward to see what had fallen.

It was his acorn. The one he’d picked up in Beorn’s garden, and hidden in his pocket all the dark days in Erebor of Thorin’s gold-sick madness. The acorn he’d carried back all the way to the Shire, intended more than ever now to plant it, and nurse it, and—he blinked back tears again. 

Bilbo put down his drink and scooped up the acorn, cradling it in his hands. His face crumpled helplessly, and he sobbed over it as if it were just today that Thorin had died. But they were quiet—though deep—sobs, and he hunched up and gritted his teeth, and did his best to get on top of it all, this uncontrollable sorrow, this aching, unsatisfied resentment with destiny.

After a few moments of silent convulsions, he managed, sniffling, to bring himself back under control, and dried his eyes with his fresh handkerchief, dug just that afternoon from the pleasantly cedar-scented drawers of his wardrobe. Then, when he felt himself quite right again, or as right as he would be, Bilbo stood and carefully placed the acorn back on the mantle.

Sinking back down in his chair, Bilbo gave another shake of his head, still mentally scolding himself for mourning over someone who had been so far beyond him, so focused on his quest, so ready to meet his fate that a Hobbit had been little more than a tiny, corner detail in the map of his life. Foolish, he told himself, taking another drink. 

Bilbo swallowed the burning liquid and sighed. It was pleasant to let the brandy flow into his blood, relaxing his muscles and softening the edges of his grief. Well, it softened the edges but it deepened the hole inside him, and the pain of Thorin’s loss seemed to echo in the walls of his soul.

Bilbo took another drink. Walls of his soul, indeed, he thought morosely, staring into the fire again. He’d do well to get over it, he nodded absently to himself again, unaware of the longing written all over his face in the yellow glow of the flames.

For a moment, all was still. 

Then the acorn, inexplicably, rolled off the mantle again. Once more, it fell at his feet. Bilbo stared down at it, momentarily distracted from his grief. He must have put it too near the edge. It was round. Round things rolled. But his forehead was slightly crinkled, for he couldn’t see any reason why it would roll off the mantle so belatedly. Then a slight smile curved his lips. Perhaps it was a magic acorn. After all, it had belonged to a shape-shifter. 

Bilbo blew his nose on his cedar-scented handkerchief, and then picked up the acorn and placed it once more on the mantle, this time taking care to set it well back from the edge, and turning it so the head was facing outward, and it wouldn’t roll off again.

Then, with a deep sigh, Bilbo finished his tumbler of brandy and retired to change into his nightclothes and go to bed. The first night in months and months to sleep in his own, soft, comfortable bed, now… that was something to think about. Better to think about that than about the fate of the dwarf whom he’d grown to admire and long for. Thorin must be at peace now, Bilbo told himself. Avenged, revered, triumphant… mustn’t cry over it.

The Hobbit wiped his face one last time with his soft handkerchief and crawled into his bed, burying his face in his pillows. Slightly musty. We’ll air them out tomorrow, he told himself, and did his best to focus on the many tasks and errands that waited for him to put home to rights again. It was good to have tasks and errands. Kept one busy. Time to move on, and focus on the future again, Bilbo told himself firmly, and snuggled down under the covers.

In the living room, the acorn rocked back and forth slightly on the mantle several times, as if trying to loosen itself from something. After a few moments of restless rocking, it rotated slightly, rolled once, and stopped. There was a pause as if the acorn was exhausted from its efforts, but then it gathered its strength again and rolled off the mantle once more, falling with a muted plomp onto the rug before the fire again, to lay there until morning when Bilbo would come to tidy up his tea service, left by the dying embers of the fire.


	2. Dreams

That night, for the first time in months, Bilbo had a dream. It was very vivid, yet simple. In his dream, Thorin was walking through Bilbo’s smial, looking about himself slowly. His noble face was solemn and thoughtful, and he looked as though he were unaware of the Hobbit at first. In his dream, Bilbo stood in the doorway of his bedroom, looking out, watching Thorin wander silently through the rooms, drifting gradually closer.

As is often the case with dreams, it didn’t quite make sense, for the moonlight was shining in the windows, and the fire was blazing in the fireplace. The black shadows between the white steams of moonlight were long and untouched by the firelight, yet the gold from the fire shone too, and when Thorin finally turned to look directly at Bilbo, one half of him was shining white in the moonlight, and the other a deep gold from the fire, and all around him was nothing but shapes and shadows.

Bilbo stood staring, his hands on the door frame on either side of him, holding himself up. He and Thorin regarded each other, and Thorin came nearer, his eyes steady and intent upon Bilbo. He was fantastical in white and gold, the moonlight touching the silver streaks in his hair, the firelight flickering on the beads in his braids and the rings on his fingers.

He came and stood before Bilbo, staring down at the Hobbit with such warmth, such affection, that Bilbo felt comfort and happiness filling his heart like a balm. He stared back up at the Dwarf, his own regard and adoration shining in his eyes.

Without touching, they gazed at one another for a long moment, and then Bilbo turned and led the way to his bedroom, and Thorin followed him, pushing the door closed behind him. In his dream, Bilbo turned to tell him not to close the door, because he didn’t like it closed. He felt safer if he could see all through the smial at a glance, in case intruders ever took it upon themselves to investigate his abode. 

Then suddenly Bilbo was sitting up in his bed, awake, and it was still dark, and the door to his bedroom was indeed closed. Blinking confusedly, slightly dizzy as one is when one has awakened abruptly, he stood and tottered over to the door, opening it fully. Then, prompted by the faint emotional scent of the dream, Bilbo crept carefully through his home, eyes moving back and forth cautiously. It was a dimmer version of his dream, with the moonlight casting a less illustrious glow, and the fireplace just a faint sparkle. But nothing seemed amiss.

Bilbo returned to bed, his mind caressing the image of Thorin gazing down at him, glowing with moonlight and firelight both, his eyes dark and loving in the shadows of his bold and noble face. It was a comforting image, and Bilbo sank back into sleep, his arm wrapped around his pillow, feeling more peaceful than he had in months.


	3. Errands

In the morning, Bilbo rose refreshed, the dream a faint image in his mind that he turned to periodically for a taste of its sweetness. He moved sleepily about his kitchen in his bathrobe, making tea, making toast, spreading the jam on his toast, all his long-missed morning routines. He sipped tea while looking out the window at his terribly neglected garden. Plenty to do there, he mused.

Munching his toast, Bilbo wandered into his living room and gazed out the side window at the spot he had already decided was perfect for planting his acorn. Might do that today, he thought. Sunny day, mild breeze… beautiful. He turned to glance at the mantle where the acorn should be, and stopped chewing.

Acorn was not there.

Uneasily, Bilbo’s gaze wandered down to the rug by the fireplace. Yes, there it was, lying just where it had dropped twice before. A bit of a chill went down the Hobbit’s back. He stayed by the window, half-eaten toast in hand, and scowled faintly at the acorn. He was certain he’d put it back in such a manner that it couldn’t roll off again.

Bilbo’s mind wandered over the previous night. Well, he had slugged down that brandy rather quickly. Perhaps he’d only dreamed putting the acorn back the second time. Both times, even. Yes, perhaps he’d drifted off to sleep by the fire, and the acorn rolled off because… the heat of the fire made … the air move? A current? Bilbo nodded to himself. Yes, that could be… and he was mostly asleep but in his half-sleep he saw it fall and he dreamed that he picked it back up, but he really didn’t. 

After all, he’d gone off to bed without putting the tea service away; that was unusual for him. Probably, he was exhausted. Months of travel, danger and heart ache, terribly fatigued. Bilbo started chewing again. Yes. Undoubtedly. Well. He looked back out to the spot where he would plant the acorn. That was a fine spot for a tree. He finished his toast and went into the loo to freshen up and get ready to face the morning. So much to do today. He left the acorn on the rug. It could lie there just fine until he came back from the market, he decided, and did not acknowledge the faint trace of superstition that flickered briefly in his mind.

 

An hour later, Bilbo Baggins, freshly bathed, in clean clothes that were a bit loose on him now, but comfortable and familiar, padded sedately through the marketplace with a basket on his arm. He shopped unhurriedly, nodding and smiling at the occasional friendly face, stopping to chat with the vendors who greeted him with their droll observations that he’d come back from the dead just in time not to be homeless. He laughed and agreed wryly, counting out his coins and handing them over, placing the fruit in his basket carefully, so it wouldn’t bruise.

Most of Hobbiton seemed to be peeking at Bilbo from under hats and behind trees. No one approached him directly until he was finished shopping and on his way back to his smial. Just as he was turning from the stall with the ripe cherries, a Hobbit lady and her child were approaching, and the little fauntling, a wide-eyed girl with big blue eyes and a pink nose, toddled right up to Bilbo and stood staring up at him in wonder. Bilbo smiled back down at her, and stopped, as she was directly in his path.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly.

The tiny girl stood with her fingers in her mouth and gazed up at Bilbo for a long moment. Then she turned her face slightly and seemed to look over his shoulder and focused on something that held her attention quite thoroughly.

Bilbo glanced up at her mother. “She’s adorable,” he said sincerely, and the mother gave a modestly proud smile. 

“Come, sweetie. Mustn’t block the gentleman’s way,” she said.

The child looked back at Bilbo, blinked and gave a wide smile, and then tottered carefully around Bilbo, giving him a wide berth, as if he needed space enough for two. She gave one more gaze up toward Bilbo, but again seemed to focus on a spot somewhat behind him. Then she took her mother’s hand and they moved to the cherry stall. Bilbo, still smiling at the general cuteness of children, headed back home to put his purchases away. He intended to clean during the brightest, hottest part of the day, and only go into his garden when the afternoon cooled off.


	4. Tasks

Accordingly, Bilbo spent the remainder of the morning cleaning the smial, pushing his furniture fussily back to just the right place—for the desk should be lined up with the window and the corner of the shelf, and the blue willow bowl should be to the left of the candle. He dusted thoroughly, and finally, having saved sweeping to the very last, turned to eye the acorn still lying on the rug.

Bilbo picked it up thoughtfully and turned it in his fingers, inspecting it. It seemed to be a perfectly normal acorn. He looked at the mantle for a moment, but then decided to put the acorn in his pocket until it was time to plant it. He didn’t admit to himself that he was a little nervous of it rolling off the mantle again, although in broad daylight it seemed silly to be afraid of an acorn. Nevertheless, he put it in his pocket and then swept briskly at the rug until the deep, rich colors were free of dust, and whisked the little pile of dirt out the front door of his smial.

As he stood by the door, sweeping the dust out, he caught a flash from the corner of his eye. Something seemed to reflect the afternoon sun for a moment, but when he looked at his door, the green paint was smooth and unmarked. Unbidden, the memories arose of that last night before his adventure, when strange dwarf after strange dwarf had turned up at his door, having seen the mark Gandalf had placed there.

“Mark, there’s no mark—” Bilbo had exclaimed, and now he stood, broom in hand, and thoughtfully touched the door where the reflection had just caught the corner of his eye. It must have been sunlight through the trees. Or a butterfly fluttering past.

Bilbo turned and stood looking in his open doorway, trying to imagine what Thorin had thought when he arrived that night, and paused in the open doorway, gazing in. Gandalf had loomed just there, Bilbo remembered, his eyes moving about the entryway just under the light. And he himself had been fussing about over there, small and unimpressive in his suspenders and bare feet. What a figure Thorin had cut when he appeared in this doorway, the evening stars behind him, his hair waving about his face and shoulders, his cape over his furs.

How his voice had scraped across Bilbo’s awareness. “So, this is the Hobbit.”

Bilbo smiled faintly, remembering his first glimpse of the Dwarf king. He was all hair and forehead and nose. And eyes. Those unwavering, almost violently blue eyes. Bilbo propped the broom against the open door and stepped inside, trying to recreate Thorin’s path as he’d made his grand entrance, sweeping his cape off from his furs.

“He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” Bilbo said aloud, in his best imitation of Thorin. The memory amused him now, and he smiled to himself.

Behind him, the broom clattered across the threshold, and Bilbo jumped like a cat, hands outspread, before he saw that it was only the broom falling over. He placed a hand over his heart for a moment, and then recovered himself, picked up the broom, and set it back in its usual corner. Then he glanced around the smial. Well, it was tidy enough now, and the afternoon had cooled. Time to work in the garden, he decided, and closing the front door, Bilbo made his way through the house, retrieved his gloves from their spot in the closet near the back door, and stepped out to tend his flowers.


	5. Memorial

It was nearly sunset when Bilbo finally admitted to himself that he was stalling. He stood on the velvety green grass, his trowel in his hand, the acorn in his pocket, and stared at the spot where he wanted to plant his memorial to Thorin, and their adventure. He looked up at the clear evening sky. The last rays of the sunset caught the clouds overhead, making their westerly sides orange, and their easterly sides a deep purple. The contrast reminded him of his dream last night. Thorin in white and gold. 

The parallel reassured Bilbo that this was right, and he took a deep breath and applied the trowel, digging a hole much larger than one would think was necessary for a wee acorn. But Bilbo wanted all the dirt around it to be loose enough for the sprouts and roots to work their way into it with ease. He wanted a soft, moist, welcoming bed for this acorn, and he worked steadily, breaking up any clot of dirt he encountered until the site was to his satisfaction. Placing the acorn just so, he watered it a bit (but not too much) and covered it over, and patted the dirt down. Then he placed several stones in a circle around it so he would remember exactly there it was—as if there were any danger of him ever forgetting.

When he was finished, Bilbo knelt there for a long while, feeling as if it were more of a burial than a planting, and once again warm tears trickled down his cheeks in the deepening twilight. He was glad it was late, and no one was likely to see him crying in his garden. He shed his work gloves and wiped his cheeks, and then lifted his head and took a deep breath. All around him, lamps glowed in the round windows of his neighbors smials, and the sunset deepened to red.

“Thorin, I—“ Bilbo whispered, afraid his voice would carry in some open window and the Mad Baggins remarks would start up again. “—I plant this in memory of you, and your wonderful nephews, and your quest to recover your birthright, and… and…” his throat choked up and he couldn’t even whisper for a moment. Finally the muscles eased, though the tears were streaming steadily. Bilbo swallowed a few times and managed to finish, “I wish you may be honored and remembered for all eternity. Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor.” 

How long Bilbo knelt by his little memorial, crying, he did not know, but when he finally rose to his feet, his knees were stiff, his eyes were swollen, and it was quite dark. As he made his way stiffly to his door, it occurred to him that an acorn was a fitting memorial for one called Oakenshield, and suddenly his feet stopped even as his hand was on his doorknob.

Why had he picked up an acorn, off all things, at Beorn’s? Why not a pine cone, or a flower bulb, or herbs, or a pretty stone?

“I must have been in love with you even then,” he breathed.

As if in answer, a breeze rustled the leaves of the tree near his door, and Bilbo turned to look up at it wistfully. When the leaves grew still again, he went inside.


	6. Memories

Once in the kitchen, Bilbo lit his lamps and hovered uncertainly for a moment. Should he have tea or brandy? He wiped his eyes again. Brandy might not be a wise habit to fall into every night, he decided, and put the kettle on the hob.

When the tea was brewed, and the tray carefully set with scones and his mother’s china, Bilbo carried it into the study and placed it on the hassock as he’d done the previous night. He added a log to the fire, poked it up, and settled into his comfortable chair again, and enjoyed his evening tea. Once again, he fell to staring into the fire, and he relived the moment that Gandalf had produced the mysterious key to pass to Thorin, right there at Bilbo’s dining table.

Bilbo remembered standing behind Thorin, looking at the long, rippling dark hair that flowed over the fur-covered shoulders. Whenever Thorin had turned his head, and that dramatic profile came into view, Bilbo had stared at him in some wonder. Yes, he’d been struck from the first, not with love exactly, but certainly with a painful mix of intimidation and respect, and a feeling that he was in the presence of one who had an important destiny. Someone who had been born to make a mark in the world. And he, unassuming Bilbo Baggins, could have a hand in that destiny.

He sipped his tea again and then let the cup settle into his lap as he leaned back in his chair and stared into the fire.

What if he had not accompanied the dwarfs? Would they have been eaten by the trolls? Killed by the orcs? 

What if he’d never even met Thorin Oakenshield? Where would he, Bilbo, be right now? Why, right here, having never left. He’d be doing exactly this, but without a hole in his heart. His eyes drooped sleepily and his fingers loosened on the tea cup. The flames in his hearth flickered hypnotically.

What if Thorin had not been a king? What if he’d been just an ironsmith who had traveled to the Shire in search of work, and had met Bilbo out in his garden one day? What if they’d found each other in that way? Bilbo tried to imagine a Thorin without a quest, without that burning drive. Could he? Imagine Thorin sitting in the chair opposite right now, having a cup of tea in the evening.

Half-asleep, Bilbo smiled dreamily. It was rather a self-deprecating smile, for Thorin sipping tea was not a sight he ever got to experience. But he closed his eyes almost all the way, letting his lashes blur the room, and stared into the fire, and pictured Thorin in the chair opposite him until he could actually see him there, in his peripheral vision. He could see the pale gleam of that high forehead and long nose, see the darkness of hair and beard and clothing. He could actually see Thorin gazing steadfastly at him. Suddenly it seemed to him that there was movement, almost as if Thorin leaned toward him.

Warm liquid seeping into his trousers lifted Bilbo from his trance, and he realized that he’d let his tea cup tip over and soak into his lap. He looked down at it, and then looked across to the empty chair. He’d dreamed that Thorin was reaching toward him, and then he’d spilled his tea. Sleepily, Bilbo mopped at his lap for a moment with a napkin, and then decided that it was a lost cause, and he should just go to bed.

Bilbo put the tea cup on the tray, then stepped to the fireplace, took the poker and knocked the logs apart until the fire died to embers. Finally, with a final look around, he made his way drowsily out of the room. He glanced toward the door to make sure it was closed and out of the corner of his eye, it seemed as if there was some movement by the fireplace. Bilbo turned and looked, but nothing was there. Tired, he decided, and went to bed. 

He made sure the bedroom door was fully opened before he shed the tea-stained trousers and shirt, and slipped into his nightdress. Then he climbed into bed again and fell instantly asleep.


	7. Visions

That night, Bilbo’s dreams of Thorin were even more beautiful and mystifying than the previous night. He dreamt that he was lying in the grass outside in his yard, and his head was by the stones he’d placed around the spot he’d planted the acorn. His arms were outflung, and he soon realized that a warm, firm hand was clutching his own. Rolling his head to the right, he saw that Thorin was lying next to him, a few feet away, his hair spread over the grass, and they were holding hands. Thorin was looking up at the sky, smiling, and Bilbo smiled too, his heart peaceful and delighted. He rolled his head back and together he and Thorin watched the sky.

To Bilbo’s amazement, the sun rose, passed over them, and set in a mere moment. Clouds roiled across the sky like rabbits running, turning pink and then white and then orange. Night fell and the stars rotated over them for a moment, and then day came again. Bilbo clutched Thorin’s hand tighter, and felt the dwarf tighten his grip as well, and they looked at each other with the same wondering gaze as the sky lightened again, and the sun raced overhead once more, and then the sunset flashed orange, and darkness fell again. 

It went on and on, and Bilbo grew almost dizzy watching the sun cross over them, and then the moon and stars, and then the sun again. He could almost feel the earth turning, and then from behind them, tendrils and leaves rose up from the ground, reaching and thickening until the oak tree rose up and spread over them, green and shady, and still Thorin held Bilbo’s hand, and they both stared up at the branches and leaves that filtered out the sunlight. Bilbo closed his eyes and a rapturous elation swelled in his heart. Then he heard Thorin’s voice.

“Bilbo!” Was all he said, but it was so loud, so clear in his ear, that Bilbo awoke instantly, and it was morning. He was in his bed, his arms outspread just as they had been in his dream. In his hand, he could feel Thorin’s hand, but of course when he turned his head, no one was there. And yet his hand fairly tingled with that lingering touch, and the voice that had spoken his name echoed in the room.

Bilbo simply lay there for a moment, aware of the sun streaming into his room. The dream was still so much with him that he stayed still, willing it not to leave him, for as long as he could. He closed his eyes and tried to re-enter it, but eventually birds chirping outside his window made it impossible, and he finally admitted defeat and sat up in bed. Then he looked at the door to his bedroom, and goosebumps broke out on his arms. It was half-closed again. Not all the way closed by a long shot, but not at all how he’d left it.

Bilbo slipped uneasily from his bed and stared at the door for a moment, biting his lip. Then he turned to make his bed and stopped, staring at his pillow. There was a blade of grass on his pillow, as if it had come from his hair. For a spell, Bilbo simply stood there in his nightdress, staring at his door and then his pillow, mouth agape. A kind of hope was tingling in him, although he couldn’t have explained what it was he hoped for, other than to say that it had to do with Thorin being somehow still “out there somewhere.” Not alive, no, but… not non-existent. Still an entity or force that could feel and communicate.

But suddenly, a more prosaic explanation came to him. “I’m sleepwalking,” he said aloud. It would explain everything. The acorn, the door, the grass. Yes, of course. Exhaustion, grief, stress… they had taken their toll and he was undoubtedly not quite himself just yet. Just as Gandalf had warned. Bilbo sighed and his shoulders slumped. This was not good… had he spent half the night lying in the grass outside? 

Bilbo felt his hair for more grass, but there was none. He pulled off the nightdress and inspected the back for grass stains and dirt. There wasn’t any, but still. Wandering around in one’s sleep was dangerous… what if he wandered into the woods in the night and met up with a wolf?? Or fell in the river? Or walked into someone else’s smial and scared them half to death? “They already think I’m strange,” he said to himself, pulling his night dress back on and then putting his robe on over it.

Perhaps he should visit old Halfred Greenhand. He was good with medicinal herbs, Bilbo thought as he made his way through his house to retrieve his tea service and set up his breakfast. When he got to his study and went to gather up his china, he paused and looked uneasily down at it. His tea cup was on the rug. That was not where he’d left it. Yes, he was definitely sleepwalking.


	8. Medicine

Halfred Greenhand was the gardener Bungo Baggins had consulted whenever he was in perplexity over a root or herb, Bilbo remembered, and as soon as he was bathed and dressed and tidied up, he took up a bottle of wine as a gift, put it in his basket, and made his way across the Shire to old Halfred’s smial.

He found the grey-haired Hobbit pottering around his roses in a straw hat and faded over-alls. Bilbo knocked politely at the gate.

“Yup? What? Oh yup. Oh! Oh, yup, yup,” the old fellow muttered, straightening and giving Bilbo a once-over. “Alright then, yup, yup,” Halfred continued, coming to the gate and unlocking it to motion Bilbo through. “Yup, yup, you too, go ahead,” he said, holding the gate an extra moment after Bilbo was through.

Bilbo noted it, hoping old Halfred wasn’t too senile to be of use (and was then ashamed of himself for such an immediately selfish reaction.)

“Alright, alright, yup. Come along, then,” the old Hobbit kept up a running ramble as he escorted Bilbo over to a little wrought iron table that sat on the flagstones before the old Hobbit’s blue door. There were three chairs and Halfred absent mindedly, or so it seemed, pulled out all three before deciding to sit in one of them. 

“Yup, yup. Have a seat,” he grunted, removing his straw hat and tossing it over on a nearby bench. His grey hair stuck up in tufts.

Bilbo sat down politely and reached into his basket. “I brought you a little something, um… I seem to remember you liked … I mean, my father used to say, I mean, he used to value your advice…” Bilbo petered out, not sure how to indicate that Halfred could be paid in wine without making it sound as though Bilbo thought that he was a raging alcoholic.

The old Hobbit nodded appreciatively and took the bottle in his dirty hands. “Mmm… yup. Nice.” He said. Then he put it on the ground next to his chair and cocked his head attentively. “So.” He added, staring over his red nose at Bilbo.

“Um, yes, well… as you may have heard, I’ve been on a bit of an adventure this last year,” Bilbo began.

Halfred nodded, looked a bit amused, glanced over at the empty chair and then back at Bilbo. “I see. Yup. Go on.”

“Yes. Well… a lot of things happened, and some of them were very frightening, and some of them were…. Well… tragic, actually, and now I have—“

Halfred looked back at the empty chair and said, “Yup. You certainly do.”

“—trouble sleeping. I’m sleep-walking…. What?” Bilbo interrupted himself.

Halfred also looked surprised. “Oh, is THAT the trouble? Oh. Well. Hm.” He wobbled back and forth in his chair for a moment, eyes glancing around at things that Bilbo couldn’t see. “Hm. Alright then.” The old Hobbit heaved himself back up from the chair and went into his herb garden, pottered around for a bit, and then came back with a handful of flowers which he put in Bilbo’s basket. “Make a tea of ‘em. Sleep like a baby,” he assured Bilbo, and then put his hands in his pockets, looking at the empty chair again. “That’s all you want to talk about?”

Bilbo gazed up at Halfred, mystified. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t want to talk about your friend?”

“My friend?” Bilbo asked, wondering how much gossip had spread through Hobbiton.

“Your friend who died?” Halfred pressed, eyebrows raised.

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “How did you know—“

Halfred rocked back on his heels and chortled, his eyes moving to the empty chair. “Bit obvious,” he said.

Bilbo exhaled, feeling terribly transparent. “Well, yes, there was someone I was … very fond of, and… yes, he died. I think… I think that’s why I’m sleep-walking.”

Now it was Halfred’s turn to look puzzled again. “Hm. I see. Alright then, if you’re alright with it.”

Bilbo considered explaining that he wasn’t at all “alright with it,” that he missed and mourned Thorin every minute, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to confide quite that much in a Hobbit so eccentric. Didn’t need the whole town realizing he’d fallen for the dwarf who had led him off on his adventure and who had then had the terribly bad manners to get himself killed at the end of it.

Peering into the basket at the little blue flowers, Bilbo asked, “These will help me, then?”

“With sleepwalking? Oh yah, yup. Certainly take care of that. Don’t know if it’ll help you deal with your friend.”

Bilbo sighed, standing up and pushing in his chair. “No, probably not, but… I’ll deal with that on my own, eventually.”

Halfred cocked his grey head in what looked like pure befuddlement. “Ye will, eh? You know how to do that?”

Bilbo smiled sadly. “It just takes time.”

Halfred looked off to the side for a moment and then back at Bilbo. “Hm. Alright, then, if you say so. Have a good day, then. Enjoy your tea. Thank your father for the wine,” he added.

Bilbo opened his mouth to say that his father had died years ago, but decided that it wasn’t worth it to disturb an old Hobbit if he’d forgotten. “Thank you, Sir,” he said, and let himself out the gate. When he looked back, Halfred was pushing in the empty chair and shaking his head. 

Bilbo turned and headed home, hoping that the old gardener’s memory as to herbs was still good. It would be a terrible thing to find out he’d been given a laxative by mistake. Bilbo chuckled a little to himself, imagining that. Sleepwalking with diarrhea, now that would give the neighbors entertaining stories for years to come. His chuckle grew into a laugh. Oh yes, that could go wrong in all sorts of ways. Then he sighed to realize that it was the first time he’d laughed in months. It felt rather good. Perhaps he would heal, eventually.


	9. Drugs, really

When he returned back home, Bilbo carefully took the flowers from the basket and hung them up by the window to dry. He kept a couple out to steep that very night. He knew it was a far smaller dose than Halfred was recommending, but in the back of his mind was still the fear that the old Hobbit hadn’t given him the right flowers, and if he took a full dose he’d either wind up in the toilet all night, or something worse.

He put the kettle on and waited, staring off at nothing until the water boiled. Then he poured the steaming liquid over the leaves and petals and let the mixture steep a bit while he went outside to check on the site where he’d planted the acorn. Of course, he didn’t expect anything to pop up overnight (although that dream had been vivid indeed), but he did have an uneasy worry that the magic acorn might work its way out of the dirt and be waiting on top of it just to scare the daylights out of him.

But his little circle of rocks and patted down dirt was undisturbed, and Bilbo returned to drink his tea. He’d taken several sips before he realized what he was doing. It was not even noon, and here he was drinking something that would make him “sleep like a baby.” He was undoubtedly supposed to drink it at night right before bed. Well, this was…what had he been thinking??

He scowled down at the tea for a moment and then it occurred to him that he was just testing it out to see if it was really a sleep aid or something else, and so, murmuring, “It’s just an experiment,” he finished the tea and followed it up with a slice of bread and butter. After all, he’d made a very weak concoction.

When he was finished, he decided to go and pick berries from the hedges at the border of his property. If sleepiness (or anything else, ha ha) overcame him, he’d return home, that’s all. So, taking up his gloves, his hat, and his basket, Bilbo left the smial, walked up over on top of it, and up to the hilltop behind it, and then down again, and to the edge of the property where a spreading maple tree hovered over a hedge of raspberry bushes. The sun was high overhead, and bumblebees buzzed lazily in the upper branches of the bushes. Bilbo contentedly picked berries for nearly a half an hour before the drowsiness set in. 

“Oh my,” he commented, setting down the basket carefully. Halfred’s flowers were no joke. Suddenly, he could barely keep his eyes open. He turned his head in the direction of home, thinking it would be best to start out immediately. Just turning his head made him a bit dizzy. No, there’s no walking home, he thought, and tottered over to the base of the maple tree. “I’ll just—“ he mumbled, and lay down in the shade. Oh, it was really quite comfortable.

He dozed off immediately, but opened his eyes a short while later and saw, without surprise, that Thorin was sitting at his side, looking down at him with concern. The dwarf was without his usual furs and armor, was in fact very simply dressed in trousers and white shirt, his blue velvet coat thrown over it but not fastened. His hair was entirely loose, without even a braid on either side.

Bilbo smiled up at him. “Where are your braids?” He tried to ask, but his voice didn’t seem to work, and his lips barely moved. 

Thorin tipped his head attentively, as if trying to understand what Bilbo was saying.

Bilbo gestured with a lazy flop of his hand. “Your hair—“ but then the effort seemed too much and he let his hand fall onto Thorin’s thigh. The dwarf looked down at it with wide eyes and then looked back at Bilbo. Drugged as he was, the Hobbit could only smile rather cheekily at Thorin, who eventually smiled back and put his hand on top of Bilbo’s.

Then the dwarf looked around them alertly, and it seemed to Bilbo that he was guarding the sleepy Hobbit. With a sigh of contentment, Bilbo turned on his side, curling closer to Thorin, and dozed off again.

When Bilbo woke for real, it was nearly sunset and he was stiff from sleeping on the ground. Of course, he was alone, but as he sat up and leaned back against the tree, he felt comforted. Dreaming of Thorin seemed to ease his sorrow. The dreams were so vivid. He could see the dwarf so clearly, even feel his warmth. 

Finally, Bilbo stood up, stretched, and went to get his basket of berries and his gloves. Well, he certainly hadn’t sleepwalked, he mused with a little smile. Those flowers were… good. He returned to the smial peacefully, swinging his basket of berries. That was quite a nap. Once he was inside and the door was shut, Bilbo stirred up the fire, lit his lamps, looked around and said, “I think I’ll make a pie.” It was rather late in the day to begin baking, but after a nap like that, it wasn’t likely he’d go to bed before midnight. Might as well bake a pie.

Bilbo busied himself in the kitchen, cleaning the berries, molding and working the dough, and even found himself whistling quite cheerfully while he worked. 

It was during a moment of silence when he paused in his whistling to concentrate on edging the pie crust when a faint creak caught his ear. He lifted his head and turned it just in time to see his bedroom door slowly swinging shut.


	10. Confusion

Thorin’s last clear memory was of lying on the ice, Bilbo hovering over him, agitated, and he was trying to tell Bilbo that he was sorry for being so angry, that he didn’t want to part that way. Thorin was quite certain he was dying, and wanted very much to make amends to the handsome little Hobbit who had stood beside him all through the trials of the journey. What a worthy companion he had been, and how sorry Thorin was that, in his madness, he had turned on poor Bilbo.

But he’d lost consciousness even as he was trying to tell Bilbo his feelings, and when he woke again, it was completely dark. Thorin was surprised to wake again at all, but it was obviously night and he was very lightheaded. He felt sure he was under the medication of one of Oin’s infusions, and so he drifted in and out of consciousness for what felt like a very, very long night.

The next time Thorin woke, it was bright but misty. He opened his eyes and immediately had to squeeze them nearly closed again, because the white mist around him was so bright, it was painful. It took several minutes for him to adjust enough to see and eventually it seemed to him that he was in a tent. He was surprised to find himself on his feet. He must have struggled to his feet before he was fully conscious.

Dizzy, Thorin looked around and saw Dwalin asleep on a cot nearby. He was bandaged but clean looking, Thorin noted. He looked down at himself and saw his own bloody furs were undisturbed and, confused, he turned to go looking for… well… someone who could tell him the status of the battle. 

Walking made him so lightheaded that he didn’t actually remember leaving the tent. He simply was outside a moment later, and the mist was still all about him, although he could make out some things. It seemed the battle was over, long over. Unsteadily, Thorin walked toward the gate of Erebor and saw, to his astonishment, that the rocks were being cleared away.

He must have been unconscious for … Thorin was having a hard time assessing… a week? He sat down carefully on a rock and watched the dwarfs heaving the smaller rocks aside, using levers to move the larger ones. He didn’t see anyone he recognized. Exhaustion washed over him and he slid down off the rock and lay down again. Then it was dark once more.

The next time he woke, Thorin was inside the Great Hall of Erebor. It still seemed as though his vision were not quite right. It was misty inside, and it should not be misty inside. It gave him a strange, white tunnel vision that forced him to concentrate very hard to see where he was. It occurred to him, worriedly, that he must have sustained a serious head injury. He moved forward carefully, regarding with some wonder the dwarfs moving about, partially obscured by the mist. 

It was very busy in the Great Hall, and no one paid him any attention, although that didn’t register at first because Thorin was so busy concentrating on staying upright, it took all his mental powers. At one point, Balin crossed his path with a document in his hands, and he was reading it as he walked. Thorin looked at him, but Balin didn’t look up.

Thorin wondered about the treasury, and a moment later, to his surprise, he was in the treasury. He must have blacked out while he was walking. Feeling weak and unsteady again, Thorin sank down on the pile of gold and decided just to rest a bit here. He crossed one arm over himself, and realized that there was no pain, just exhaustion. That was good. Probably he was quite recovered, but for his head. He dozed off on the gold, torches flickering around him.

The third time Thorin woke, he was standing before the throne, and still very confused. The misty tunnel vision had not improved. He stared up at the spot where the Arkenstone should have been put, but it was not there. Dain, however, was on the throne and consulting with several members of his company. Dain was wearing a crown.

Thorin scowled for a moment and stepped forward, meaning to ask just what this signified, but when he opened his mouth to speak, no sound came out. He lifted his hand to get the attention of the dwarfs, but none of them reacted to him at all. Tired, he let his arm fall. Too weak to speak, too confused to understand… was he in any condition to lead? No…

Thorin turned away dizzily and leaned against a pillar for a moment. When he closed his eyes, his head whirled and he had to clutch the pillar. When he opened his eyes again, he was in the library, and it was very dim and dusty. The mist had a gray quality in the library, and Thorin turned his head to stare at a shelf full of books at his side.

Perhaps he should just rest. Just try to recover. His eyes slid drunkenly over the book titles until he saw one that appealed to him. Warriors of the Iron Age—yes, he would take this book and retire to his bed…wherever that was. 

Thorin lifted his hand to take the book and discovered that his hands were oddly numb and clumsy. He couldn’t quite hook his fingers on the edge of the book’s spine. He tried again and grew internally agitated that he couldn’t make his hands work properly. The damage was clearly worse than he’d realized, and the experience of trying to remove the book took on a nightmarish quality.

A movement nearby drew his attention away and he saw that Ori was busily sorting through a pile of documents on a long table nearby. Thorin cleared his throat and tried to call to Ori to come and help him, but he couldn’t make any sound. Or he did, but Ori couldn’t hear it, and Thorin couldn’t hear his own voice. Could he hear anything? It occurred to him to wonder. Tired, and confused, he stood for a moment. Yes, it seemed as though his head was full of voices and sounds and echoes, none of which made sense.

He put his hands to his head, feeling for injuries, but felt nothing. He returned his gaze to the book, remembering now that he wanted that book. Thorin picked at it again with his numb hands, growing more and more determined that he would get this book off the shelf.

Finally, after much effort, the book loosened and tipped toward him. Encouraged, Thorin pawed at it, scowling, bending all his concentration on it. At last the book tipped into his hands. But he was unable to grip it and it fell to the floor with a slap.

Ori’s head snapped up and he turned to stare at Thorin, looking afrighted. Thorin looked back at Ori rather abashedly. He gestured at the book, trying to say that he was sorry but he couldn’t quite get hold of it. Then blackness swept over him, and he passed out right there on the library floor.

When he awoke, it was dark again and he supposed they had carried him back to his bed and he should sleep now. So Thorin slept through another long night, feeling that tomorrow he should try again to do something constructive. He just needed rest.


	11. Neglect

Gradually, in his forays into Erebor, Thorin grew aware of a certain dismissive attitude the dwarfs seemed to have of him. He knew he was badly injured. He couldn’t keep his concentration on anything for more than a few seconds. His arms and hands were clumsy and uncoordinated. He couldn’t hear properly and had little desire to speak, because it seemed hard to keep a thought in his head long enough to turn it into a sentence. But it hurt him the way no one seemed to pay him the slightest attention.

They hadn’t even taken his bloody furs off of him, he noted, looking down at them sadly. Was no one feeding him, cleaning him, tending to him? He couldn’t remember anyone doing so, although he was neither hungry nor in pain, so someone must have. He wandered about unmolested, uninterrupted, and often found himself in places that he didn’t remember walking to.

He found himself in the library again, and Ori was still sorting through documents and ignoring him. Pettishly, Thorin swiped at a document, and though he couldn’t pick it up, he could make it fall. Ori jumped like a cat and stared at the document as if he couldn’t believe Thorin would do such a thing, and the King felt a moment of satisfaction, followed by a wave of weariness that always accompanied his efforts at physical exertion. He closed his eyes, knowing that when he opened them again, he would be somewhere else.

He found Bofur in the kitchen, whittling away at a wooden puppet whose various parts were spread on the kitchen table. Thorin approached with unsteady footsteps and reached for one of the pieces to get a better look, but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate and he pawed at it for a moment until he’d slid it toward himself, only to drop it off the edge of the table. He sighed unhappily.

Bofur froze in his whittling and stared at the fallen piece. Then his dark eyes traveled up and he seemed to be looking in Thorin’s general direction. Thorin stared back rather sullenly, and then, dizzy and sickened by his inability to do the simplest things, he staggered to a nearby bench and sat down heavily. After a moment, he lay down and dozed off. When he awoke, Bombur was in the kitchen and Bofur was gone.

It occurred to Thorin that he had never finished his conversation with Bilbo and he wanted to do this, so he rose and drifted out of the kitchen, going in search of Bilbo. No one even looked at him as he passed, and Thorin grew quite sorry for himself. Clearly his usefulness was at an end. Crippled, confused, half blind… now he was outside the gates of Erebor and it was early evening. Where was Bilbo? Thorin had a feeling that Bilbo had left Erebor, and without really thinking it through, he began walking toward Mirkwood. Did it matter? It hardly mattered now, he thought, and stumbled forward into the increasing darkness, hearing the voices and sounds echoing in his dizzy head, and wondering why no one had removed his bloody furs and armor from him.

They didn’t care about him. Bilbo was the only one who really cared. He was the one who had gone with them even though he’d had no real reason to care or help. Bilbo was the one who had thrown himself in front of the Pale Orc. Bilbo was the one who sacrificed even his own reputation to bargain peace with the Men and Elves. Bilbo came looking for him when he had fallen and nearly died on the ice. Bilbo was the last person to actually look him in the eye and speak to him!

Why had Bilbo not come to visit him in his sickness? Thorin faltered, confused. Oh, of course. He had banished Bilbo. He’d tried to apologize, but he’d lost consciousness and now Bilbo was gone because he thought Thorin hated him and he was banished. Thorin staggered toward Mirkwood with steps that seemed to cover the ground with magical speed. The mist swirled around him, but Mirkwood was visible ahead.

Thorin perked up a little, aware that while he could not use his arms well, his legs seemed to walk as a giant walks, spanning great lengths with every step, and the stars over his head rotated and turned like fireworks. Head injury, he reminded himself, and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the mist from his eyes. Bilbo. He must find Bilbo. He walked with his giant’s steps until he lost consciousness, and apparently his legs kept moving even when he was asleep, for the next waking moment found him on the outskirts of the Shire.

Thorin paused, rather proud of himself. He’d walked all the way to the Shire in his sleep, he thought rather drunkenly. That was good. Now to find Bilbo. He wandered about the darkened neighborhood, passing round windows glowing with light until he found the green door with the glowing mark on it, beckoning him. It was so easy to find! Why had it been so hard the first time, he wondered. He raised his hand to knock and then remembered how clumsy his hands were. Wearily, Thorin leaned and rested his head against the door. Perhaps it fell open. Perhaps Bilbo had caught him and helped him in, Thorin mused, for when he opened his eyes again, he was sunk deep in the comfortable chair by the fire, and Bilbo was sitting across from him, sipping a cup of tea, and staring into the fire.


	12. Contact

They sat companionably together for a few minutes, while Thorin leaned back and stared at the Hobbit. He was thinner now, and he looked sad. Obviously, Thorin hadn’t explained yet the reason for his visit.

He tried to compose his thoughts and say what he wanted to say, but his attention drifted and he saw the acorn on the mantle. He smiled to himself. How like his sentimental Hobbit to keep that humble acorn and take it back home with him. He rose and went to the mantle, staring at the acorn and remembering when Bilbo showed it to him, cradling it in his fleshy little Hobbity hand, and saying how he would plant it and remember. Bilbo at least, remembered. Thorin turned to gaze down at him, and wanted to ask him if he remembered their moment as they smiled at each other over the acorn. But Bilbo was staring into the fire, his face collapsed in tragic lines.

Wanting to cheer Bilbo, Thorin reached for the acorn, but his smile faded as he was reminded of his clumsy, inept fingers. His new disability. He pawed impatiently at the acorn, determined to get it into his hands and turn with it to Bilbo, and smile at him, and explain that he was not banished anymore, and that Thorin was not angry. That he forgave him, thanked him even. That he understood now. But the cursed acorn slipped through his cursed hands and fell to the cursed floor, just like Ori’s book and Bofur’s doll.

Thorin turned away in frustration and flopped back into the chair. Bilbo was staring down at the acorn. Thorin rubbed his temples in dissatisfaction as Bilbo reached for the acorn.

Then, to his astonishment, the Hobbit dissolved into sobs, cradling the acorn and weeping over it abjectly.

Thorin leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and tried to reach out and pat the distraught Hobbit on the shoulder, but Bilbo paid him no mind at all. 

At last, it began to occur to Thorin that he wasn’t the only one who was confused. Because Bilbo didn’t seem to understand that Thorin was there, and forgave him, and was happy to see him. After a moment, Bilbo replaced the acorn on the mantle without looking at Thorin.

A dreadful suspicion began to grow inside the dwarf. Uneasily, he stood and went to the mantle again, reaching out with his clumsy, numb hands, and dragged the acorn off the shelf again.

He turned to look at Bilbo expectantly, trying to ignore the growing dizziness in his head. But it was too much for him, and he closed his eyes, gripping the mantle desperately. He did not want to wake up somewhere else, he wanted to stay right here with Bilbo in his cozy smial and talk with him about the acorn, and the Arkenstone, and the battle, and the past, and the future, and their friendship… Thorin held on tightly, his head whirling.

When he opened his eyes again, he was relieved to see that he was still by Bilbo’s fireplace. The lights were out now, and Bilbo had gone to bed apparently. Thorin was standing by the dying embers of the fire, his hand still on the mantle. He looked down at himself. He was still in his battle furs and armor. Perhaps he could take them off now.

Experimentally, he put his hands to his clothes and found that they were not numb or clumsy now, and to his relief, he was able to shed his bloody furs and armor. They fell away and were gone, and he wasn’t sure where he’d put them, but he was more simply dressed now.

He turned his attention back to the acorn. It seemed suddenly very important that he be able to hold that acorn, and carry it to Bilbo, and speak to him. He felt sure that if he could just hold it in his hands, all would be well. 

But the numbness and clumsiness had returned, and no matter how much he picked at it, the acorn resisted, stalled, was stubborn, and then finally rolled off onto the floor again. Appalled, and refusing to contemplate why his life had devolved into this long, strange, confusing dream of helplessness and illogic, Thorin turned away and went looking for Bilbo.

Suddenly, the Hobbit was standing in the doorway of his bedroom. He was wearing a long, white nightshirt and he looked as confused as Thorin felt. Wanting to reassure him, Thorin moved toward him, and suddenly, Bilbo seemed aware of him. Their eyes locked, and Thorin smiled, feeling relief wash over him. Of course Bilbo would acknowledge him! Bilbo was the one who cared.

He watched as the Hobbit braced himself on the doorjamb, and Thorin came up to him and smiled down at him. Bilbo smiled back up, and for just a moment, all the confusion cleared, and the mist dissolved, and Thorin felt as though he were entirely lucid. It was night time. The moon was shining in. Bilbo was leading Thorin to his bedroom.

Thorin followed him in and turned to close the door. To his surprise, it responded to his touch, but the effort immediately made his mind grow dim and sleepy, and when he looked back at Bilbo, it seemed like the Hobbit was trying to tell him something about the door. Suddenly, Thorin needed sleep more than anything, and he moved past Bilbo and fell onto the bed, where he sank into whirling darkness and slept again. His last conscious thought was that he should have taken off his boots.


	13. Clarity

When Thorin awoke, it was morning and the sunlight was streaming in, bright and blinding. He sat up unsteadily and looked around. Something was different. It took him a moment to realize that the mist had evaporated. Bilbo’s home, drenched in sunlight, was clear and cozy, full of gleaming wood and cozy touches, pottery and lace doilies, just that combination of fussiness and practicality that Thorin remembered. It suited the Hobbit perfectly. Thorin wandered out of the bedroom in search of Bilbo. His hearing was slightly different too now… his head didn’t seem so full of crashing echoes and overlapping voices. It was quiet. He entered the kitchen in time to see Bilbo stepping out the front door, basket in hand.

Thorin followed him. They went to the market together, and for the most part, it seemed like the Hobbits treated Bilbo rather like the dwarfs treated Thorin: distantly. Although some of them did speak to Bilbo. At the cherry stand, a tiny Hobbit child came right up to them and stared first at Bilbo, and then at Thorin. He couldn’t help but smile a bit at her, and she smiled back at them. Then she skirted around them and went for the cherries, and Thorin followed Bilbo home again. 

Once they were home, Thorin sank into the chair by the fireplace again and watched Bilbo clean. It was becoming impossible to ignore the fact that most of the time, Bilbo seemed unaware of him. Thorin waited for a while, but Bilbo neither looked at him nor spoke. The dwarf rose and came and stood right in front of him, but Bilbo just kept sweeping the floor. Thorin watched uncertainly as Bilbo opened the door and swept the dust out into the yard. Was he welcome anymore?

Thorin waited for Bilbo to look at him again, the way he had the previous night, but no such luck. The Hobbit leaned the broom against the open door and turned and gazed around. Thorin stood directly in front of him, but to his chagrin, Bilbo walked around him once, and then suddenly spoke in a voice that Thorin could hear.

“He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” Bilbo said in an unmistakable imitation of Thorin. 

Horrified and angry to realize that this was what Bilbo most remembered about their first meeting, Thorin took two steps to the door and swatted at the broom with all his might. The broom went flying and Thorin fell into darkness.

It was almost evening when he opened his eyes again. He was in the chair by the fire, but the fireplace was cold and dark. Thorin sat in the dimness and tried to understand. How had he gotten here? He couldn’t remember now. He remembered being ignored in Erebor, and then he was here, and the Hobbit sometimes ignored him and sometimes did not, and it was all confusing. He looked down at himself. At least he was not in bloodied battle gear anymore. Was his face clean? He stepped to the mirror and looked at himself for the first time in weeks.

At first, because it was so dim, he couldn’t seem to see himself. He stared into the mirror, scowling in concentration, and eventually he could see himself, but the smial behind him disappeared. Blinking rapidly, Thorin backed away from the mirror, afraid that if he wasn’t careful, he’d wake up somewhere else. He turned and looked around. He was still in Bilbo’s cozy Hobbit home. But where was Bilbo?

Thorin wandered about the dark rooms, unable to find his host, and finally, nervously, he made his way outside. There he found Bilbo kneeling in the dirt, digging. Thorin went to him and sank down next to him, watching him bury the acorn.

Bilbo carefully patted down the dirt and placed a ring of stones around it. Thorin watched silently. The evening was very still. Even the birds were quiet. Then Bilbo spoke.

“Thorin, I—I plant this in memory of you, and your wonderful nephews, and your quest to recover your birthright, and… and… I wish you may be honored and remembered for all eternity. Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor.” Then he remained kneeling there, crying, unaware of Thorin mere inches from him, leaning forward to stare into his face.

It was then that the confusion finally left Thorin and he understood, or rather stopped denying the obvious. Horror swept over him. He stared down at the grass, his numb fingers digging into it as if he were afraid of falling off the earth. He clutched until a blade of grass came loose in his fingers and he stared at it, concentrating on holding onto it.

Suddenly, holding onto something real was more important than anything. Who knew where he’d spin off to if he lost hold on the physical earth? Thorin gripped the blade of grass and then lifted his head, realizing that Bilbo was leaving.


	14. Adapting

When Bilbo finally dried his eyes and rose to go into the house, Thorin followed him numbly. At the door, Bilbo paused and said, “I must have been in love with you even then.”

Thorin stood with his head down, and sorrow rose off him like a wave. He radiated sorrow, so much that the leaves over his head rustled, and he wondered if he had done it. He and Bilbo both looked up for a moment. Then Bilbo went inside and made some tea, and Thorin accompanied him because there was no where else he wanted to be.

He watched as the Hobbit readied his tea service, and poked up the fire, and settled in for the night. Thorin sank down into the chair opposite him. He made no further effort to get Bilbo’s attention. He simply sat dumbly in the chair, fingering the blade of grass absently. Bilbo drank his tea, settling back in his chair, and Thorin watched him. As the evening wore on, and the Hobbit grew more sleepy, Thorin almost had the feeling that Bilbo could see him, was aware of him in some peripheral way. He studied the drowsy Halfling, whose head was drooping onto the back of his chair. He tipped his head and Bilbo smiled as if he saw it.

Thorin looked down and saw that Bilbo’s tea was slipping from his grasp and about to fall. Automatically, he leaned forward to catch it, but paused, afraid that if he exerted himself, he would slip into confusion and exhaustion again. Unhappily, he watched as the tea spilled, and Bilbo awoke, and set his cup aside, mopped at his trousers sleepily for a moment, and then went to bed.

The tea cup was very near the edge of the tray. Resentfully, Thorin put his finger to it and very slowly, carefully, conserving his energy—but with definite malice (toward the tea cup, not Bilbo) he exerted himself in slow increments, until the tea cup finally tipped off the service and rolled on the rug. Thorin stared down at it, hating it. Then he waited for the wave of exhaustion to hit. When it did, he was rather pleased to note that it wasn’t so profound as to make him lose consciousness. Clearly, self-restraint was key. After another long, brooding moment, Thorin rose and wandered into the bed chamber, absently closing the door slightly behind him.

Bilbo was already asleep. Thorin put off his boots and wondered if he’d be able to find them again in the morning. Then he laid down beside Bilbo and closed his eyes, still fingering his blade of grass, and imagining him and Bilbo lying beneath a spreading oak tree, watching the clouds drift by. He drifted off to sleep, enjoying this vision, and in the dream he reached over and petted Bilbo’s hair for a moment, and then felt for Bilbo’s hand, and they smiled at each other, and lay staring up at the spreading leaves of the acorn tree. Finally, Thorin tried to speak directly to his companion. “Bilbo,” he said. The Hobbit turned and looked at him, startled. Thorin smiled and faded off.

In the morning, Thorin woke again to find Bilbo ready to go out. He looked for his boots but couldn’t find them. Then, experimentally, he simply imagined his boots back on his feet, and when he looked down, they were there. Well, that was handy, he admitted. Without conscious decision, he found himself on the path at Bilbo’s side as he made his way through the Shire. It was a beautiful day, and there was no mist or confusion now. There was just the resigned knowledge that he could be near Bilbo, and they seemed able to connect occasionally, but he, Thorin, was quite helpless in most respects.

Gloomily, he followed Bilbo to the smial of a mumbling old Hobbit who, at least, seemed aware of Thorin. He mumbled something that Thorin couldn’t hear, holding the gate for Thorin and making eye contact. Feeling his mood revive a bit, Thorin entered the gate with a gracious nod, and was gratified when the old fellow pulled out a chair for him. But for the most part, he sat at Bilbo’s side sunk in contemplation. He couldn’t hear what the old Hobbit said, although he did hear Bilbo’s voice sometimes. He caught the words “sleep walking,” and heard him say that he’d had a friend who had died.

Yes, I’m right here, he thought sadly. The old Hobbit looked right at him and smiled. Thorin lifted his head and stared back, wondering if that had been random, or if not, was there was anything to be gained in trying to communicate? 

But then the old fellow went and got some flowers and gave them to Bilbo, who put them in his basket and rose, and it was time to leave again. Thorin refrained from even attempting to push in his chair, although he felt quite rude just leaving it. But any attempts to move the physical world were so draining, and he was concentrating on staying alert, and being near Bilbo. So he followed Bilbo out the gate and glanced back once to see the old Hobbit wave at him. He waved back, a little cheered at being seen.


	15. Guarding

It was with concern that Thorin watched Bilbo drink that tea. He hadn’t heard what it was for, but it was clearly a drug. He didn’t like it, but there was little he could do. Bilbo drank the tea and then took up his gloves and hat and basket, and Thorin followed him out behind the smial to the hedge beyond to pick berries.

He stood by and watched Bilbo picking the berries, occasionally looking around to see if there were anything dangerous nearby. Then Bilbo grew suddenly, unnaturally drowsy, and Thorin knew the drug was kicking in. The Hobbit toddled off to lay down under the tree, and Thorin grew rather agitated. This wasn’t safe. The Shire was a peaceful place, certainly, but there were wolves in the forests not far away. And there was always the possiblity of some traveler who wasn’t entirely honorable. And… Thorin wasn’t sure what he was worried about, but he was worried.

Sitting down at Bilbo’s side, Thorin settled in to keep watch. If nothing else, he could probably wake his Halfing up with a well-spoken “Bilbo!” in his ear. 

As the afternoon wore on, Thorin glanced down often at the sleeping Hobbit. When no danger arrived, Thorin relaxed and let his mind grow quiet. Calm gradually descended on him. He felt as if he were at peace. Even as he became aware of the sensation, Bilbo opened his eyes, looked directly up at Thorin, smiled, and put a hand on his leg. Thorin’s eyes widened, for the hand actually rested on him, warm and tangible, for a moment. He put his own hand on it, marveling that he was awake, but they could touch. It was almost as if, in some states, Bilbo could meet Thorin in some half-way state. But as Thorin grew more alert, Bilbo’s hand seem to slip through him and onto the grass, leaving Thorin staring down at it, wondering how to preserve those moments where they could meet.

With a contented sigh, Bilbo curled toward him and drifted off again. Thorin smiled down at him and resumed watching the countryside. 

When Bilbo finally awakened and they returned to the house, Thorin was amused to hear Bilbo declare that he was going to make a pie. As for himself, the dwarf was tired. He decided to go and lay down on Bilbo’s bed, and, absent-mindedly pulling the door behind him, he thought his boots and jacket away, lay down on the bed, and dozed off.

Thorin woke in the middle of the night and turned, expecting to see Bilbo sleeping next to him, but the Hobbit was not there. Instantly concerned, Thorin rose and went to the door. It was shut almost completely, which was unusual. He reached out and, guarding his energy carefully, making absolutely certain to tamp down any panic or frustration, Thorin worked his numb, clumsy fingers into the crack and then gently nudged it open. (That he could probably just walk through it did not occur to him.) When it was open, Thorin stepped into the hallway and looked down it. Bilbo was standing at the far end, looking directly at him very somberly.


	16. Experiment

Thorin stood for a moment uncertainly. It was night. There was a bit of moonlight, but it was no longer as full and bright as it had been on previous nights. Still, Bilbo stood at the door to his study, staring down the hall at him, and there was a dim glow coming from behind him.

Suddenly, Bilbo turned his head and seemed to stare away from Thorin, and yet his unmoving stance was very much like someone who was watching without wanting to seem to be watching. Thorin’s step faltered for a bit, but Bilbo gestured for him to come forward, still without looking directly at him.

Curiously, a bit uneasily, Thorin approached. When he was near, Bilbo turned and stepped into the study, and Thorin followed. When he came in, he stopped, looking around him in wonder. Bilbo had apparently been redecorating.

Four candles were lit in the four corners of the study, but they were all behind screens so that the flames were not directly visible. The effect was a very low glow that made the room seem as if … well, Thorin wasn’t certain. The floor was in shadows, but the walls glowed. And there were mirrors propped up about the room.

Bilbo, he realized, was standing with his back to Thorin, gazing out the window at the dark night, sipping a cup of tea. Thorin felt certain it was infused with those flowers of Halfred’s.

“I know you’re here,” Bilbo said quietly.

“Yes,” Thorin tried to say, but he wasn’t sure it was audible. It was barely audible to him.

He waited for Bilbo to turn around, but the Hobbit remained staring out the window. Thorin watched him, uncertain, until he realized that Bilbo was not actually staring out the window. He was looking at the glass, and the black night turned it into a dark mirror. Over Bilbo’s shoulder was another mirror, and Bilbo shifted slightly to the left.

“My mother used to say that you could see a ghost in the reflection of a reflection,” Bilbo said, taking another sip of the tea.

Thorin moved until he was standing between Bilbo and the mirror, and he saw the Hobbit take a deep breath. “Oh,” was all he said. He turned to see himself in the mirror, but when he concentrated on seeing himself, once again, the smial disappeared into a grey mist and he grew dizzy.

“Thorin!” Bilbo’s voice called him back, and the dwarf looked away from the mirror and stared off into space, trying to keep from slipping away. “Don’t look into the mirror,” Bilbo recommended. Thorin nodded and stood still, only an arm’s length from the Hobbit. 

Bilbo drank the rest of the tea quickly, and then set down the cup. He turned to face Thorin, but the way his eyes moved about made it obvious that he couldn’t see the other when they faced each other directly. Not while they were both wide awake and nervously alert.

Bilbo sighed and turned back to the window. Thorin steadied himself and concentrated on being very calm, as he’d been in the meadow that afternoon. Very calm. Very peaceful. He held still and tried to let his mind go blank.

It was easier if he was relaxed, Thorin decided, and went to the chair he’d begun to think of as his chair, by the fireplace, which had only the smallest flame flickering in it. Thorin leaned back, placed his hands on the arms of the chair, stretched his feet out before him, and did his best to enter that frame of mind that had allowed him and Bilbo to touch.

Bilbo, who seemed able to track him even if he couldn’t see him, went to his own chair, sank into it, and waited for the tea to take effect. They both were very quiet and still. Gradually, it seemed to Bilbo that the moonlight grew brighter and the candles glowed more powerfully even as his head became heavier and heavier. His eyes closed. When they opened again, he could see Thorin sprawled in the chair opposite him. They stared at one another for a long moment, each afraid to move for fear they would break the spell.

Finally, carefully, Thorin sat up, leaned forward, and took Bilbo’s hand. They both felt it, and smiled in triumph. Then the dwarf slipped out of the chair and down to his knees on the rug, coaxing Bilbo to come and join him. When they sank to the rug, arms about each other, the Hobbit thought he’d die of happiness. He could feel Thorin, feel his heat, smell his scent… and then the full potency of the tea was upon him, and Bilbo was completely unconscious.


	17. Plans

Thorin felt Bilbo slip away and for a moment, he was overcome with sorrow and frustration. Then he sighed and, rather than fight it, joined the Hobbit in sleep.

They did not meet in dreams that night. The tea rendered Bilbo unable to dream, and Thorin kept waking up intermittently to worry about the candles setting the room on fire. But when morning came, and Bilbo sat at the breakfast table with a headache, and Thorin sat across from him, not visible but clearly nudging a spoon back and forth nervously, they both knew that they were going to try again to meet. 

Bilbo stared at the barely moving spoon and realized that they could probably communicate, but … it wasn’t conversation he was after, really. He had no questions for Thorin. What would he ask? “What’s it like to be dead?” The fact that Thorin was here but unable to do anything but occasionally knock something over was answer enough to that question. 

“So, you did actually care for me?” Would be a silly and unnecessary plea for reassurance. Thorin was here, wasn’t he? He’d come into his dreams, he held his hand, he stood guard over Bilbo’s sleep, clearly he cared. Just the look in his eyes…

Thorin, for his part, was also deep in contemplation. Was this what he was supposed to be doing with his afterlife? He didn’t know or care. There were no directions, were there? Mahal didn’t appear and say, “Thorin, come this way.” No bright light guided him anywhere. He supposed he could stare into a mirror until he was surrounded in mist, and then try imagining himself into the Hall of the Ancestors, but he found to his surprise that he’d rather haunt Bilbo. I’m a king, he decided with a touch of defiance. I’ll do what I want.

And what he wanted was to spend his nights communing with his Hobbit. Intimately, preferably. Abruptly he left off playing with the spoon. Yes, that was what he wanted. He looked up at Bilbo, who was hunched over his breakfast, hair flat on one side, looking hung over.

Bilbo stirred himself and said, “I made that tea too strong.”

Thorin moved the spoon again slightly. Bilbo’s eyes noted it.

“Yes.” Bilbo agreed. “Tonight, just a sip or two. And then I’m going to lay down in my bed and wait for you.”

Thorin pushed down on the bowl of the spoon, causing the handle to raise slowly. Bilbo stared at it. “Is that innuendo?” He asked lightly. “Are you being… inappropriate?”

The handle of the spoon nodded up and down and Bilbo broke into a grin. He could almost see Thorin sitting opposite him, staring from under those brows, his thin lips quirked in a telling smirk.

“Alright, then,” Bilbo murmured into his morning coffee. “I see how you are.” 

And he didn’t say it, but he thought that maybe it might not be a bad idea to try sleeping… without his night clothes. Lock up for the night, have a nice hot bath, sip a little tea, and go lay in bed without a stitch of clothing on. See what happens.

*****

Bilbo Baggins never did marry. In the Shire, they said he came back a little strange from his adventure. But he did seem happy. He lived a long and healthy life, and when anyone asked him the secret to his sturdy constitution, he always said, “Oh, I go to bed very early.” Then he’d smile in a way that seemed… just a little nasty.


End file.
